


always been golden

by bookcat



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Quidditch, Wizard Economics, Wizard Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-16
Updated: 2014-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-21 10:23:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2464808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookcat/pseuds/bookcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brienne is a professional Quidditch player. Margaery wants her... as the face of TyrellCo's new mass-market energy potion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	always been golden

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mautadite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mautadite/gifts).



Brienne Tarth simply loved being a professional Quidditch player. All her life, her height and strength had been a disadvantage, making her movements awkward and her social life worse. But on the pitch she was powerful, some even dared call her graceful.

Despite her best efforts, the Holyhead Harpies had just lost their season opener against the Kenmare Kestrels. It was a brutal 8 hour game, but their captains had rallied and force-Flooed both exhausted teams (and a hundred or more of their closest friends) to a private pub.

She’d took the customary team Firewhisky shot, then the less-customary cross-team-all-Beaters shot, but remained largely unaffected. She was now nursing a muggle lager and observing from a corner booth (necessarily, as the barstools here often led to hitting her head on low hanging candelabras).

As she took in the crowd, her eyes were repeatedly drawn to Renly Baratheon. Brienne had nursed a hopeless crush on the very handsome, very honorable, very taken pureblood since she was a frightened first year and he was the kind Head Boy. At the moment, he had one arm around his husband Loras, and the two of them were laughing with her teammate Asha.

She had long since followed Renly’s life third-hand through his appearances in the _Daily Prophet_. He had mostly appeared in the society pages, right up through the “scandal” of his muggle marriage. She had previously known Loras only as star Chaser for the Kestrels. Since then, she had learned that he was youngest son of another ancient pureblood family (his traced their lineage to Garth Greenhand, who she recalled from the first three chapters in every Herbology text she’d ever read). The news had come out during the off-season, so she’d taken a bit of guilty pleasure in sending Bludgers his way.

Seeing them together, she had to admit they radiated happiness. It seemed that Loras had made Renly an even nobler man—long content to coast on his inheritance, he of late had moved to the political pages of the papers, with his Rainbow Guard campaign to bring marriage equality to the Wizengamot. She appreciated their efforts (she’d known she was bi since her first-year dorm-mate had an overly-seductive Lannister Twins poster), though in practice she never expected to be married either way.

Lost in the melancholy fog of her own making, Brienne looked up and for a moment thought Loras had noticed her staring and approached. She looked again, and realized it was not Loras at all—too brunette and female, but clearly a relation.

“Is this seat taken?” the apparition asked.

Margaery, that was her name—she was in the _Prophet_ frequently as well. Brienne looked at the completely empty booth and shook her head.

Margaery sat down across from her. “I wanted to say, you performed wonderfully today. I could scarcely keep my eyes off you, even when you were bludgeoning my own brother.”

Brienne never was good at taking compliments, but her Harpies media training certainly helped. “That is kind of you to say. Loras was a worthy opponent.”

Margaery grinned. “You’re much more gracious a loser than he ever is. Had they not won, I can only imagine the oaths he’d mutter.”

Brienne shrugged. “As a Beater, I find it’s best not to worry about the score. I am sworn to protect my teammates above all else.”

“What an honorable perspective,” Margaery marveled. “Many beaters take their pleasure in the violence, but you are the very spirit of gallantry.”

Brienne had never heard her sporting philosophy described so eloquently. Before she could express her appreciation, she was interrupted by the Harpies’ very drunk captain, Obara. “Tarth! Get your ass in gear, we’re doing another team shot!”

Brienne dutifully stood up to switch ass-gears, but remembered her manners and turned back to a bemused Margaery. “It was nice to—”

Ygritte, their third chaser, interrupted. “Chop chop, big boy!”

“I am no boy,” Brienne responded by rote. They had developed the odd call and response back when they first started playing together—it was more a fond nickname than a cruel jape.

When she looked back after the shots Margaery was gone.

* * *

Brienne rarely did appearances as a celebrity, but this event was definitely a worthy cause. Mya Stone, the Harpies’ Keeper, ran an outreach program for magical orphans and muggle orphans suspected to have magic, called the Gates to the Moon. Mya and her foster-brother Gendry had been raised in a series of middling-to-awful group homes around London. They spent 11 years completely ignorant of their powers or culture, then seven long summers lying about a fictional scholarship to an equally fictional muggle boarding school. Her long-term goal was to create a culture of fostering, and eventually even adoption, in the Wizarding world.

Brienne could somewhat relate. She’d never known her mother, who died during her infancy having never come out to her muggle husband Selwyn. She could never fully dismiss the rumors that she was part giantess, because she honestly could be—Father insisted that her mother had been a head taller still than full-grown Brienne.

She was surprised to see that many of the other famous guests were purebloods. Her own Seeker, Arya Stark, with a brood of siblings including brother Robb (Keeper for the Wigtown Wanderers); Loras Tyrell (hand in hand with the still obnoxiously handsome Renly)... she couldn’t quite identify the non-Quidditch guests of honor, but the turnout was spectacular.

She realized why Loras was there when she spotted Margaery under a very large advert: “TyrellCo - Growing Strong.” The Tyrells were at the forefront of the modernization of the Wizarding economy. Their Herbological interests remained vast, and of late they had entered the mass-produced potions market. Matriarch and CEO Olenna Redwyne-Tyrell came from wine-makers, and knew her way around beverage sales. Their latest effort was Growing Strong, an “energy potion” marketed much like muggle Red Bull. (Wizard Red Bull, legend had it, actually gave you temporary wings, though it was near impossible to verify since the insectoid main ingredient had gone extinct.)

The _Prophet_ profile she’d read indicated that Margaery was tapped to succeed Olenna as CEO (should the “Queen of Thorns” ever deign to retire). But here she looked little and less like a wealthy magnate—she wore her Kestrel colors, and was giggling with a tall redhead of a familiar mien.

After a moment, Margaery noticed her, and enthusiastically waved her over. “Brienne! Lovely to see you again so soon. Do you know Sansa? She’s sister to your Seeker.”

Brienne knew far more of Sansa’s tragic dating history (with Renly’s nephew, of all things) than she ought to have upon first meeting. She was the subject of much gossip amongst the Harpies—besides featuring in Arya’s anecdotes, it seemed Mya brought her up with increasing frequency (and despair) as her crush grew larger and more obvious.

Margaery was quickly called away to attend to business. Sansa seemed a bit uncomfortable, but gamely made conversation. “It’s very good of you to come out today. Arya’s often said you loathe publicity.”

“Truly? I’m just here as a muggleborn fan of the cause. If my status can help the project, I am duty-bound to lend myself.”

Sansa’s nervousness melted into a small smile. “Duty-bound? You truly are straight out of the age of chivalry, aren’t you?”

“Is that the reputation that precedes me?”

“Ah, well, not in so many words. Arya has spoken of your sense of justice, and Mya your courage and honor. And now, faced with your courtesy, it was an irresistible analogy for an historian.”

Brienne did not know how to react, but figured courtesy would not be amiss. “Well then I guess I thank you, m’lady.” She saw her joke had made Sansa blush, so she quickly changed course. “I must admit I have never met a non-ghostly historian before. What is it that you study?”

They chatted about Sansa’s work for a long while, until Mya’s magically amplified voice rang out: “All right, kids, the moment you’ve all been waiting for! Broom-riding demonstration in five minutes!”

After the demonstration, Brienne was greeted by Margaery, who was distributing samples of Growing Strong to the athletes. She was joined by Loras and Renly, and the three of them were telling a small cohort of children ridiculous tales about the side-effects of early test batches.

One of the orphans, a young teenager, piped up. “Did it look like pressing fast-forward on the telly?”

Margaery did not miss a beat. “Very much so! What an excellent analogy. What is your name, young man?”

The boy shyly replied that his name was Podrick, and pulled a crumpled bit of parchment from his pocket. “Could you sign this, sir—ma’am—Ms. Tarth? If I had a broom I would want to be our Beater, just like you were.”

Brienne was flustered to be singled out, but took the parchment (it was a photo of Brienne’s old Hufflepuff team, copied out of a yearbook perhaps?). As she signed, Loras, seemingly jealous of the attention, offered the boy a hand-me-down Cleansweep. Renly reminded him that the lad couldn't practice on it in a muggle city, and Margaery pointed out that it would be unfair to the rest of the gathered children.

Brienne handed back the autograph and broke through the quibbling. “If you haven’t got a broom, focus on the bat. Practice every night till you have blisters on your hands. If the muggles ask, call it self-defense, or cricket. Come along, I’ll show you a few drills you can run. All of you are welcome to join.”

Hours later, the children had all been Portkeyed back to their foster homes, with strict warnings that if they told what they had seen this day, snarks and grumpkins would eat them in the night (they’d also been dosed with a mild secret-keeping charm).

Brienne went to ask Mya if she could help clean, but she claimed that between Gendry and the “hundreds of Starks” she’d be fine.

As soon as Mya dismissed her, Margaery reappeared at her side. “You were magnificent today, with your absolutely adorable little army. Young Podrick seemed completely besotted.”

Brienne dismissed that adjective with a wave of her hand. “Quidditch comes naturally, that’s all.”

“Your skills always impress, but I was referring to your teachings. There were easily a dozen professional players in attendance, yet you alone had the patience to run a private clinic once obligations were through. You are entitled to a reward. Now, then: I insist you join me; I shall treat you to a hearty meal.”

* * *

Dinner was indeed hearty, and Brienne, though awkward as usual, had a delightful time. Margaery told tales of growing up on the vast Tyrell lands surrounded by greenery, and was much intrigued to hear that Brienne was raised as a muggle. Talk turned to schooling—Margaery had gone to Beauxbatons, at her grandmother’s insistence, but had heard much of Hogwarts and seemed eager to hear more.

As their dessert arrived, Brienne decided to break into the present. “To be honest, when you invited me to dinner I thought your brother would be joining us. I am relieved for a break in inter-team sniping, of course.”

Margaery laughed. “Oh, yes, I love my brother dearly, but I can only hear so much quaffle talk before my ears turn to mush. But, I will admit that I had ulterior motive in bringing you here alone.”

Brienne’s heart quickened, but she used her athletic training to slow it immediately. “Oh? What can I do for you?” Some bone-deep instinct (Sansa, earlier, had much to say on gentlemanly manners) almost had her append “my lady.”

Margaery leaned in closer. “You recall our discussion of my good brother’s new project, the Rainbow Guard foundation?”

Brienne nodded.

“Well, Renly and I have been talking, and we are planning a limited edition co-branded Rainbow line of our Growing Strong energy potions. And, since Growing Strong is so heavily promoted in Quidditch spaces, we decided we needed to launch the line with a Quidditch player for each color of the Rainbow. And we were hoping that perhaps you, Brienne, could be our Beater in Blue?”

Brienne’s eyes glazed a little during the marketing-jargon-fest, so she was uncertain she heard that correctly. “You want me on a mass market potion bottle?”

“Not just a bottle, sweetling. We’re planning a heavy push, to coincide with Muggle World pride festivities. Adverts, promotional appearances—ideally, we’ll premiere you all in an exhibition match at the Planting Festival, but we need to work out who you’d play against. It’s a charitable effort, so your fee would be modest, but the cause is very dear to our hearts, and I hope yours as well.”

Brienne the Blue was turning red. “Surely there is someone more suited to the… visible nature of such an effort?”

“Who could be better? Loras admitted that you’re the best Beater he’s ever faced. Everyone I’ve spoken with says you could not be a better role model. The children, today, could not have adored you more! Why, you’re strong, brave, kind, handsome—”

Brienne’s face turned stony at the mention of her appearance. “False flattery does not endear me to your cause.”

Margaery pouted. “But none of it is false, so endeared you shall remain. Oh, please say yes.”

Despite her misgivings about publicity and duplicity, it was hard to continue resisting that face. She found another nit to pick. “Is this… opportunity… contingent on my sexuality?”

Margaery barely blinked, but her voice emerged less assured than Brienne had ever heard. “Have I... assumed falsely?”

“You haven’t, entirely,” Brienne said. “But you could’ve asked first.”

“And I beg of you a thousand pardons for neglecting to do so, of course.”

“Of course.” She continued to stare at her plate, not trusting herself to look in Margaery’s pleading eyes. “What if I were unprepared to be… out?”

“To be quite honest, sweetling,” again with the unfamiliar (feminine) endearment, “as far as the public is concerned, you were never in. Your lack of public romantic entanglements, your choice of the Harpies over the dozens of other teams that tried for you, your masculine presentation...” Margaery’s eyes dropped to Brienne’s broad shoulders for just a moment too long.

Brienne needed fresh air, that was all. “I suppose my agent will require details before I become your sworn bat, but you make a compelling argument, m’lady.” Oh crap, how had that slipped out?

“Wonderful!” Margaery clapped her hands together. “I will have my people floo your people on the morrow. Till then, shall we celebrate? I have an excellent bubblewine from grandmother’s vineyards that would suit perfectly.”

Brienne was momentarily tempted. The suggested varietal was sure to cost upwards of 100 galleons a bottle. Then she caught herself—no need to open such a treasure for a single celebratory sip just for her. “I should be getting home, but I thank you, both for the offer of celebration and for the offer we would celebrate.” With that, she stood, and acting on that same strange genteel impulse, bowed deeply at Margaery before leaving.

* * *

Brienne sat on a too-short stool, trying to find a comfortable placement for her legs. She had naught to contribute to the discussion between Margaery and her cousin Megga regarding cut and fit and fabric and texture.

The contractual parchment had been inked that morning, and after the meeting her new business partner demanded a detour to the shops. (Margaery had asked why her robes were so patchy, Brienne had explained that most things were not made in her size, and Margaery had insisted that they go meet her in-family tailor straight away.)

Looking at the fabric samples that Megga had conjured, Brienne had to agree that the color that was to become her brand was very beautiful. The shade of blue reminded her of the ocean view from her father’s country cottage on the shore (the Sapphire Isle, he called it).

Brienne tuned out the discussion to watch the two women work, particularly her new benefactor (or should she say new boss?). Margaery was truly stunning. She wore a deep green muggle power suit, saying it made men take her more seriously in negotiations. She hadn’t seemed that fierce a negotiator earlier, however—she had acquiesced to nearly every demand Brienne’s agent had made. A kindness, perhaps? This was a mere charity project, after all.

Megga sent a swatch right onto Brienne’s head, waking her from her thoughts. “I’ve transfigured together a quick prototype, but I must needs drape it to see the fit.” Brienne looked around, but could not see a changing room or even a screen to change behind like in the movies. “Oh, come now, we’re all girls here.”

Brienne reluctantly de-robed, displaying her football shorts and compression shirt. When she glanced in the mirror she made eye contact with an intent Margaery. “It’s muggle sporting attire—very comfortable,” she explained. Margaery nodded, but her gaze remained steady.

Megga worked for many torturous minutes. Charmed fabric whizzed around and took its place in the garment, but Brienne ignored most of the movement in favor of observing Margaery, who had, in turn, continued to observe her. Finally, Megga declared herself satisfied, and went off to make her notes (Margaery had insisted on a proper makeover, and dress robes were only the start).

Margaery approached with a smile. “I’m very pleased. The color suits as well as I’d imagined, and the cut is divine. Still, you must stop slouching.”

“Apologies,” Brienne replied reflexively. She tried to adjust her posture, but she still felt a bit off—what did she usually do with her arms?

She watched in the mirror as Margaery arranged her into a stalwart stance. “That’s better, but you must own your stature. I’ve seen you confident. Perhaps you should intimidate your reflection as though it’s enchanted to attack your teammates?”

Brienne tried that, and she thought it might have worked. She looked fierce (like a roar). She looked strong (like an amazon). She still wasn’t attractive, of course, but she’d hidden the gangly giantess pretty well.

That was enough (literal) self-reflection for her. She looked over at her sponsor, half hidden behind her bulk—how had Brienne not realized that Margaery’s hand was still lightly adjusting her posture, at the bottom of her spine? The visible half of Margaery’s face was softer than her usual smirk. “You resemble nothing more than the unflinching sun above the cloudless sky.” Her hands moved upwards, adjusting the shoulders, then pulling at the sides.

“Hands off, cuz,” Megga startled them both, and Margaery did indeed move back a bit. “You could mess up the pins and we’ll have to start all over.”

“Of course, dear one,” Margaery said. She went back to watching Megga work until they all were startled by a ghostly noise in her trousers.

Margaery pulled out what was clearly a regular muggle iPhone, and swiped the alarm off (to stop it insisting that it _“woke up like this”_ ). With a grimace, she turned back to the others. “I must take my leave—we are signing Emma Cuy the Yellow this afternoon, and time has gotten away from me, I fear.”

“Go, take care of your business. This one’s in good hands,” Megga assured distractedly.

“Thank you, cuz. I shall see you at Sunday supper. Brienne,” she paused, catching her eyes again in the mirror. “It was wonderful to see you again, and I look forward to working together very much.”

“I do as well,” Brienne replied, and they smiled at each other once more through the mirror before Margaery took her leave.

* * *

Brienne had anticipated the TyrellCo Planting Festival being crowded. And yet, as she arrived, she could not tell if her disorientation was from the portkey or the sheer number of people in one place. She had seen crowds this size before, but always in the context of Quidditch—without her broom and her bat, her confidence waned considerably.

They had ditched the idea of an exhibition match, so Brienne was not entirely sure why she was here. Margaery assured her that Alla—the Tyrell cousin assigned as her handler—would take care of everything and she just had to sign autographs, be seen drinking Blue bottles of Growing Strong, and generally be her “charming self” (a description which Brienne had tried to refute to no avail).

As she awaited further instruction, she wandered around. There were makeshift kitchens selling every product under the TyrellCo auspices, from Fossoway Fruiteries to Tarly’s Exotic Meats. Each booth had bottles of Growing Strong prominently displayed, and large casks of Redwyne and Rhysling on tap as well.

Across the field was a small makeshift Quidditch pitch, full of children on toy brooms screaming and giggling. Clearly, many of them had indulged in the Beesbury Honey Flavored Toffee (or perhaps the Florent Fever Fudge, or Lyber Liquorice Wands—quite a few of her favored sweet treats appeared to belong to TyrellCo offshoots). Large banners featuring the Rainbow Guard hung behind the goals on each side, but as far as she could tell nobody seemed to take offense (though, she supposed, those who minded were like to not attend the festival at all in protest—Renly’s political opposition had long ago began their boycott of his husband’s corporation).

Alla appeared, and the next few hours passed as if in a whirlwind. She spoke with more strangers than perhaps the rest of her life combined. The majority proclaimed to be huge fans, though she doubted most of them were actual supporters of the underdog Harpies. When her hand began to cramp from signatures, Alla had a healing charm at the ready. When she noticed a young male fan had been following her for 20 minutes, Alla had a guard—another cousin, though she couldn’t say which of the twins—pull him aside. And when her stomach rumbled, Alla laughed and brought her back to the dining pavilion.

Brienne insisted it would be unfair to skip the lines, so Alla wandered off to take a break of her own. Thus, she was alone and unprepared when she reached the front and saw who was manning the booth. His apron was filthy, covered in dried deer blood and sweat, and he was laughing at something his assistant had said. Seeing his face was like taking a bludger right to the stomach.

Clearly, he did not not realize her dismay, as the moment he saw her his eyes alit and he cried out to her. “Tarth! That enormous poster of your ugly mug’s been glaring at me from on high since morning, but I’m honored to see the real thing’ll still make time for the likes of me.”

Brienne blushed in spite of herself. “I did not realize this was yours, Hyle, or I’d be well into a Pommingham Pork Loin by now.” His assistant laughed, but stopped abruptly seeing Hunt’s scowl.

“Do you still hold a grudge? You’re famous enough now to be the belle of any Yule Ball, and I am but a humble meat-charmer. Surely you would take a cup of wine and reminisce about our foolish youths?” Brienne began to storm off at the word “belle.” As the sentence continued, Hunt raised and even magically amplified his voice, as if her humiliation was chasing her.

She stepped into the woods, away from the festivities. Eventually, she found a flat rock and sat, trying not to think, but inevitably she began reminiscing just as he’d suggested. Back in their sixth year at Hogwarts, Hunt and his fellow Gryffindors had begun a wager—they each entered a Galleon into the pot, and whomever managed to snog Brienne the Beauty won. The game had spread to half the Slytherins and Ravenclaws besides before a Professor had caught wind, taken 20 points apiece, _and_ revoked the extracurricular privileges of the lot of them. People claimed Hufflepuff’s Quidditch Cup victory that year was tainted by the benchings on the other teams, but it was many years later and Brienne was the only one of them playing professionally.

Till now, she’d considered that victory enough, but Hunt’s overtures of reminiscence reminded her of the Hogsmeade date they had shared. They’d spent long hours in a Three Broomsticks booth gossiping about their yearmates. The others had brought her gifts (or, in one memorable case, haunted her with charmed mistletoe), but she’d almost believed Hyle’s interest to be honest.

She was still starving, but she could not face anyone with that humiliation fresh on her face. Surely she was hallucinating, though, because the smell of venison had somehow followed her—

“There you are! I saw you did not manage to obtain your meat, so I thought I would bring it to you.” It was Margaery, and Brienne immediately felt guilty—surely she had more important responsibilities at this festival than feeding one spokeswoman.

“Thank you muchly, but I don’t think I can stomach anything that man cooked. Let me sit a moment longer, and I will return to Alla and my duties momentarily.”

Margaery joined her on the rock. “Nonsense—his contract is up for review next month, but there’s no use avoiding venison until I fire him for you.” Brienne looked up, startled. Margaery smirked as she waved the plate of meat under her nose.

Brienne reluctantly took the plate, but did not begin to eat. “You don’t even know what he did, you needn’t—”

“Oh, I do know, and I need must. You forget that Sansa’s brother Robb was a third-year at the time, and as soon as word spread of your reaction he recalled the tale anew, and shared it. Well, first he Hurling Hexed Hunt, but cooler heads prevailed.”

Brienne laughed in spite of herself at the image. Then she considered the scenario, and grew astonished. The idea of a man she barely knew—her professional rival, a Wanderer!—leaping to her retroactive defense was unheard of.

But it wasn’t nearly as touching as Margaery’s expression—she looked prepared to cast a thousand hexes herself. “Tales of his cruelty will be spread throughout the business world, mark my words.” When she saw Brienne’s face however, she softened into a smile. “You’re more important to me than the entire meat division, surely you know that.”

Brienne had not known that at all, and was about to say so when that damnable iPhone awoke ( _“like this”_ ) and sang its clarion call. Eye contact broken, the moment was over.

“I’m needed back on the main, I’m afraid. Now eat up, cheer up, and if you can’t finish out the festivities, just tell Alla before you leave.” She stood, began to walk away, hesitated a moment, then walked back and kissed Brienne on the cheek. She immediately Disapparated, leaving a bewildered Brienne to finish her lunch.

* * *

For the first time in Brienne’s Quidditch career, the Harpies had a winning record at the halfway point of the season. Ticket sales had steadily increased as well. Brienne knew the new fans were mostly there to jump on the bandwagon, but after much cajolery she had to admit to Margaery that the Rainbow Guard hadn’t _hurt_.

In anticipation of a tough match against the first place Falmouth Falcons, the team had spent their entire bye-week engaged in 11-hour practice days. Tomorrow, at last, would be a day of rest.

After a mild pep talk, Obara made one last announcement: “All right, Harpies, mandatory team bonding tonight at the Claw, no SOs or relatives allowed. See you there, suckas!” With that, she flew off towards the captain’s private changing quarters. The rest of them chose to walk.

“Well that’s not fair! Them two, they have their S-bloody-O right here on the team,” Ygritte grumbled, indicating Asha and Alysane.

“That’s what you get, ya breeder,” Alysane said cheerfully. She and Asha high-fived without looking, and turned it into a hand-hold.

“You’re just mad that she remembered to say relatives instead of siblings this time, so I can’t sneak Jon in,” Arya said.

“Well, neither can Mya bring her kinsman, so piss off, Underfoot,” Ygritte said.

“I don’t think foster kids are called kinsmen… oh, and he’s not my boyfriend!” She and Gendry had been makeout bros—as Arya insisted on calling it—since her 6th year, but she evaded commitment as skillfully as she weaved around the pitch seeking the Snitch.

“You’re just our unofficial third roommate who hasn’t got a bed of her own, and Gendry is generously allowing you to stay in his room, along with what must be a feral cat from the sounds I’m hearing,” Mya said, to much laughter.

Arya blushed. “Like you haven’t strong-armed your way into a dozen Stark family dinners just to flirt with my stubborn sister. Tit for tat, eh?”

“Eh, she’d have to get some tit first,” Asha japed.

Brienne recalled some gossip from the other side of that saga. At a recent lunch with Margaery, it had arisen that Sansa called Mya’s efforts “quite charming.” Brienne found herself chuckling in remembrance of Margaery’s banter—she had invoked a very clever metaphor involving sieging castles, patience, and the _Prophet_ nickname Mya the Mule.

When they reached the locker room, Brienne assumed the conversation was over, until Asha came up to her. “How about you, Brie? It’s a shame your lady won’t be coming—she’s well alright, for a Kestrels fan.”

Brienne froze. “Do you mean Margaery? She’s not… we’re not… it’s not like that.” She intended to leave it at that, but they persisted.

“Oh alright, sure, you keep it to yourself,” Ygritte said.

“No really! She’s…” Brienne was unsure how to finish the excuse. Brilliant? Gorgeous? Way out of her league? “My business partner. It wouldn’t be proper even if it were an option.”

“Pssh, option,” Arya said. “It’s plain as day that she’s barking mad for you.”

“She’s got hearts for eyes,” added Mya.

Brienne felt a surge of hope, but knocked it away like an emotional bludger. “She’s got Galleons for eyes, if anything.” Ygritte, the other muggleborn in the room, snorted at their jokes. The rest of the team seemed vaguely confused by the imagery, and the conversation petered out as they finished changing.

The insinuation lingered throughout the entire evening of bonding. The more her teammates teased, the more realistic a possibility it seemed. When Brienne arrived home, she fell asleep nursing a queer sense of newfound hope.

* * *

Brienne had not understood what drunkenness felt like until this day. Willas, the eldest Tyrell sibling (head of the Drinks division, and so nominally her boss? she still hadn’t worked that out), had brewed up a new concoction that he promised was more potent a potion than had ever been potable. To test it, he required large strong folk who could hold their drink, so the Rainbow Guard and their teammates had been invited to the Tyrell manse for a tasting.

The tasting had of course rapidly escalated into revelry, and now threatened to edge into debauchery. Loras and Renly disappeared upstairs early, but all other couples in attendance seemed content to suck face in full view of all the guests (and the many disapproving portraits of Tyrells past). Obara teased that Willas had slipped a bit of aphrodisiac into the cauldron, but Willas shook his head seriously and continued to take notes on the behavior of those in attendance.

Brienne, uncomfortable with the pulsing libidos surrounding her, had curled up in an oversized armchair underneath a portrait of Olenna. She enjoyed the grandmother’s wit when they’d had occasion to meet in reality, and the portrait was a fine resemblance, mocking the behavior, attire, and parentage of all who dared enter their eyeline.

She would have been content to dozily giggle for the rest of the party, but a portrait of young Margaery appeared in Olenna’s frame. “Grandmother, where am I?”

“You’re in my portrait in the ballroom, child.”

“No, silly-billy! I mean real me!” Brienne snorted—never in her life had she imagined that Madame Redwyne-Tyrell would consent to be called a silly-billy.

“Clearly you are not yet in attendance, else you would be right here, engaging our friend of Tarth in an utterly inappropriate display like the rest of these heathens.”

“Oooh, are you my kissing friend? You’re so tall, how do I reach?”

Brienne, realizing that an eight-year-old echo of the prettiest girl she’d ever met might be hitting on her, hastily made excuses to get another cup of the potion. She evaded the portraiture for a time, and managed to engage Elinor (yet another Tyrell cousin) in a game of Exploding Snap in an undecorated part of the foyer. Thus, she was right in position to see the real grownup Margaery enter the front door looking extremely exhausted.

She wordlessly abandoned the game, marching over to hand Margaery her cup. “You look as though you could use this drink.”

“And you look like a sight for sore eyes. I’m so glad you’re still here! Negotiations ran quite long, and I was afraid you might’ve succumbed to your wallflower nature and gone home.”

“Why would I come all the way out here just to deprive my favorite Tyrell of my company?” Was she flirting? When did she learn how to flirt?

Margaery appeared to have the same reaction—startled, but pleased. She muttered a spell, and suddenly her muggle suit had transformed into an extremely tiny muggle dress. She chugged the rest of the cup, spilling some in her haste. Brienne followed the motion of liquid down her neck, becoming momentarily distracted by her chest. When she realized her error, she blushed.

Upon lifting her gaze, Margaery’s expression, while still surprised, was quickly morphing into smug. “Come, let’s get another round, then we shall escape to my favorite bit of our gardens.”

And so Brienne followed Margaery around like a lost puppy for an embarrassingly long time, as the hostess-come-lately was pulled into making sociable rounds of the guests. Arya twisted away from her Gendry’s lap to raise a told-you-so eyebrow in Brienne’s direction as they passed, but Brienne could only shrug helplessly and stagger behind.

Guests had spilled over to the outdoors, so Brienne did not quite realize that they had reached the promised hideaway until Margaery (finally) turned back to face her.

“At least, we’ve reached my very favorite clearing. What do you think?”

Brienne looked around. There were rose bushes everywhere. A small creek ran in front of them, with plush hammocks levitated comfortably overlooking it. The sky was clear—she hadn’t seen so many stars since her OWL year in the Observatory. “It’s beautiful,” she finally said. If this were a muggle film, she would have meant Margaery—and she did, but she hadn’t played the moment properly (damn that liquor, or that lack of ever having flirted before).

It appeared Margaery understood the intention, because she took that chance to shiver exaggeratedly. “Yes, exquisite, but I don’t think I anticipated quite how chilly it was out here.”

Brienne at first thought to summon her a nice warm robe, but as she turned, she saw how close Margaery had inched. She instead lifted her arm in a clumsy indication that she would be open to cuddling for warmth. Margaery immediately snuggled inward.

Brienne tried not to think about the fact that her armpit and Margaery’s nose were on a level. Quickly, she realized that her chest was on the same elevation, as Margaery’s cheek brushed against it.

They stood there watching the stream and the sky. After a long moment, Brienne unexpectedly (even to herself) broke the silence. “You know, my teammates probably think we went up to your room or something.”

Margaery laughed softly. “Oh, do they?”

“Yeah, they were under the impression that we were dating? Which, no, we aren’t. Though... I’ve never dated anyone before, so... what do I know, right?”

Margaery pulled out from Brienne’s arm to face her head on. “Not once before? Truly?”

Brienne nodded, keeping her gaze on the ground. “I have never even kissed, not properly.” Surely now she’d lost the respect of her dear friend, and would be the pathetic virginal Beauty again—but then she felt a pressure on her neck. She looked up and it was Margaery, pulling her down for a gentle, slow kiss.

After a moment, she was released, but she remained stooped and stunned. She looked into Margaery’s eyes and saw a vulnerability she had never expected. All her instincts wanted to protect the owner of that gaze, and she pressed back into another quick kiss, then pulled away to see Margaery’s smirk re-emerge.

“Well then… would you like to?”

“... kiss someone? We’ve just done.” Margaery shook her head, still smiling. Brienne mentally rewound through the conversation. “Go to your room?”

Margaery laughed. “I meant date, you adorable oaf, but ‘or something’ could certainly be arranged.”

Brienne was embarrassed, but she had never been happier to be laughed at. She kissed Margaery again, deeper this time, and when her neck began to hurt she grabbed Margaery by the bum (!) and lifted her up to continue their kisses.

When they finally returned to the manse—Margaery riding piggyback and both giggling like schoolgirls—the majority of the guests were gone or passed out. The portrait of Olenna remained awake, and gave them a comically exaggerated wink as they headed upstairs.

* * *

_“Welcome back to Wizarding Wireless Quidditch Coverage! Today’s final League Cup match is brought to you by Growing Strong’s Rainbow Guard—There’s Room For You Here.”_

_“Well of course it is, Jho—we’ve got two Guardians playing tonight! How could they not throw a few Knuts our way?”_

_“It is known, Sal! TyrellCo scion Loras the Green’s Chasing for Kenmare, and Brienne the Blue is Beating for Holyhead—and, rumor has it, canoodling with Loras’ sapphic sister!”_

_“Well, folks, you can’t see this, but it looks like the rumors are right! Margaery Tyrell is in the stands, sporting both the Kenmare K & the Harpy talon!”_

_“Ouch, abandoned by his own family! That’s gotta hurt. Luckily, he’s got his handsome husband for comfort…oh, they're coming in for the coin flip."_

_"Let’s get ready to Quaf-fle!”_

**Author's Note:**

> Infinite gratefulness to my beta readers, Agnes_Bean & JayGreen (especially the former, for her AU-headcanon-refining and cheerleading bonus duties).  
> Title is from an [awesome poem](http://literaryheroine.tumblr.com/post/80806864598) offered in my awesome prompt letter. (This was a really fun writing experience, thank [you](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mautadite) for the inspiration!)


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